


Fruitful Attention

by TwistedViolets



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Klaus centric, Klaus has metaphors for everything, Klaus just wants to be happy, Klaus wears a skirt and puts on makeup, Reggie doesn’t care about that, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, allison is a good sister, so many metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 11:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21373519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedViolets/pseuds/TwistedViolets
Summary: Klaus stays still aside from his hands ruffling in his skirt while Allison applies the makeup to his skin.His father does not approve of this.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	Fruitful Attention

**Author's Note:**

> Another old one shot I had laying around and decided to give a home. <3

It was a quiet night in sin prison a la mode, as he would refer to it. Since there's always been some whimsical air that flowed through the house, cold, unfeeling, and no doubt toxic, but nonetheless magical in its own way.

At least he always thought so, and it was on nights like this that he really felt it.

Allison painting on his face, shades of pink and blue, all the while telling him how pretty he looks. That air hits him, filling him up with oxygen like he hadn't breathed in something so good in years.

This air, this oxygen flowing inside of him, it's freedom. This is the taste of freedom and oh does it taste good.

"You are perfect," His sister coos, her fingers patting gently below his eyes, making him look like a certifiable beauty queen.

He smiles, grins as his teeth shine, and a shadow passes over the room from a passing bird blocking out the moonlight for a moment. Then it shines bright on them, a blue tint to make everything even better.

A sense of calm is what the blue tint brings.

His sister smiles sweetly as she applies hot red lipstick with a steady hand across his lips. It feels slightly sticky but it's a good sensation that fills his heart.

This all feels so good.

The freedom, the makeup, the moonlight, this oxygen giving air.

Then a creak sounds outside the door, one that immediately, as if by the use of magic, drained the air of all of its freedom, only leaving behind an impure reminiscent of what once had been.

There are no knocks, nothing to warn of the storm to come but it's coming. It's an easy to thing to sense if you've lived here long enough, and boy has he.

The door opens, it creaks an ear-piercing creak, one that only provided to the horror of the situation. The fact that makeup lines his face, the fact that he's wearing a skirt, and the fact that he can't escape this. There's no time for him to even try and make himself presentable.

His father stood there behind that door, like the devil himself, his eyes glassed over with indifference while the fiery flames of hell surrounding him spoke a different tale. He had become what amounts to a self-proclaimed god and he kept his mortal beings on short leashes.

There were only a few rules you needed to know to survive living with the devil.

Be what the devil wants or suffer eternal torture.

Do what the devil asks of you without question.

Be the devil's dog, grovel at his feet, licking his heels as he rolls your dice for you, deciding if and when you should move.

He often broke these rules, he's doing it right now. His father, the devil in his nightmares, doesn't appreciate his strong courageous soldiers to be dressed up like little princesses.

He knows and that's why he's trembling before his father. His imagery tail cowered between his legs, as he looks toward the ground half expecting his father to rub his face into it as if scolding a dog who has stepped out of line.

Footsteps sound, his breath catches, the lungs in his chest collapsing in on themselves. Pain shoots through his chest while his sister's hushed whispers reach his ears but aren't loud enough to drown out the melody of death.

A hand is placed on his head.

A cold hand that travels down to his cheek leaving behind a sickening sensation. Then his father's dull fingernails dig into his skin, deeply, as he begins to rub at the makeup powdered beneath his eyes.

It hurts, tears well up and some travel down his eyelashes, blurring his vision momentarily. The fingers push, prod, wipe, and then they are pulled away.

"How disgusting," his father declared, bringing his hand back to look at the colorful display left on his fingers. "This array of substances is meant for the beautification of the female form," he explained, his voice one simple tone as his fingers rubbing together.

He nods, clenching his teeth together, knowing that his father is right. This makeup's for girls, he isn't a girl. He's a boy, a man, a person with a penis between their legs.

He has no right to wear makeup.

He has no right to wear skirts.

But he does, and he will continue to do so because this is just how he is. These things make him happy, make him who he is, and more importantly are parts of him he just can't change.

His father will never understand that.

"Don't start your whining," his father said, placing a hand on his shoulder with a grip so hard it was sure to leave bruises. "Wash this garbage off your face and put on an appropriate attire," he said, the grip increasing, an unsaid warning.

Then it stops, his father waits.

He gets up, leaves without looking back, his sister wouldn't get in trouble for this. This is his battle alone and he’s already lost.


End file.
